Land of Diskgrinder

Sunday meanderings notwithstanding - reading an absolutely crap book: The Well of Lost Plots by Jasper "I'm so fucking funny me, what with my shite literary allusions" fforde (ttwat). But also and maybe, wrote another dull as shit-water fictional speculation concerning some fucked up corporate loonspuddery. And that's swearing. Ah me, for the life of an amoeba - gently extending a pseudopod heavenward in supplication to the one-cell, the one-father (unipotent, uniscient, unipresent; in other words, does one thing, whilst looking at one thing, in the one place - a man). Wafted around on marine breezes, fairly not fucked up by deadlines (I must engulf that fucker. Right now.) Or maybe I'll go multicellular (hydra? Barnacle? Anenome? Something with a plenitude of legs anyway).That way I can flick shit in all directions whilst ironing (7 tentacles for crap-slinging, one for adjusting the steam quotient). Or, balls. I'd like to have multiple balls.

And switch off this travelogue. It's getting tiresome now. From one pillock to another post. Every thing I see (including granite thrust up between bent trees in the slanting hill forest) is just one more snap vision landscape that has no room in my head. I mean, for fuck's sake, I've seen baboons remonstrate, and clockwork spiders building spires (Nouveau not Deco). I've seen deserts carved from pumice, and small glitters of glass in dunes overhanging. I've seen vines strangle, and castles full of glowering vandals. I've see orange glows behind mechanically obsolete transport solutions - tanks pulling trains, and candles in epoxied lanterns. And if that was not enough, I'm up a cold mountain, with the lemon-juice in the eye remembrance of lost companions. I made two friends (from the base clay) and didn't have the wherewithal to keep them close enough to shelter in my narrator's embrace. They strayed out of my authorial radius, and then went awa...

Just reading Karl Schroeder's Ventus , and damn it's hard going. There's something slightly clumsy with the writing (whereas my writing is of course top draw graceful, for sure), and he overuses some odd adjectives, "storied" being a particular favourite. And now I'm about to go to read V for Vendetta by Alan Moore as light relief.